


Would it be a sin?

by qwertysweetea



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Canon Compliant, Description Heavy, Dorks in Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Overthinking, Post-Canon, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, cheesy af, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 15:30:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19871911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertysweetea/pseuds/qwertysweetea
Summary: He waited six thousand years, until the end of the world even. He would wait as long as it took; he'd wait another couple of centuries if he had to, another millennium, the rest of time as they knew it.“Crowley it’s…” he trailed off, voice missing it’s usually starchiness. He sounded undone, so sure of what he wanted but stuck in the same place he always had been. He cleared his throat of whatever thoughts have gathered there with a thick swallow. “Is it a sin?”“Yes.”





	Would it be a sin?

**Author's Note:**

> These two didn't need to kiss for us to know they completely adore each other but that doesn't mean they wouldn't try it.

They had agreed to wait for the rain to subside before they left the restaurant. Neither of them had an aversion to it, but sometimes it was nice to have an excuse to drag on the occasion a little longer. Dinner with Aziraphale happened much more frequently than they once had, but they still felt few and far between.

Lost in thought he stared into the remanence of his wine, the gentle hum of human conversation and the patter of rain on the window beside their table the right type of white noise for them both to dissolve into.

Crowley had to admit, if only to himself, that he could dine with Aziraphale every afternoon and the time between the two meetings would feel too long. Time had moved on so swiftly in the past hundred years; transport had made long visits obsolete. If he thought on it, he would say he sometimes missed the days when travel was long enough to justify spending weeks in each other's company. Modern life was stripped of its intimacy. If he thought that little bit harder, he would say he enjoyed modern food far too much to be resentful.

"Aren't we glad we stayed" Aziraphale added, never one to allow the silence to properly settle in. "Wouldn't be getting any of this in Alpha Centauri."

"Suppose not."

"It looks like the rain is slowing." He continued.

Crowley looked out the window, wondering if it could be just heavy enough to eek a few more minutes out of their lunch, and was disheartened to find that it wasn't. "So it is." He stood, chair legs screeching against the polished floor. "Allow me to give you a lift home."

"It's okay, I can walk."

"Come on Angel, it's raining. Don't want that coat of yours to get all damp and watermarked."

A smile lit up Aziraphale's face. "Alright, if you insist."

Always a game, and one that he would happily play for the rest of his unnaturally long life if it meant he could continue to do this; the lunches, the evening walks, the short drives, the nights where they would drink wine in the backroom of his bookshop and laugh over ancient history, telling stories and slowly revealing things about themselves the other hadn't known... watching the wonder and disbelief unraveling on their faces; the stares that lasted a little too long, the accidental knee touches and the pressure that lingered long after it was gone; forever skirting the edge, never quite falling in, both secretly wanting to.

The car roared to life, music blaring out from the side-door speakers abruptly stopped before he could make out Freddie's first syllable.

"You don't have to turn it off, you know."

Crowley didn't reply. He never did, because he knew better than to think Aziraphale would argue over him keeping it off any more than he would about him turning it back on. So he thought.

When the music clicked back on, he found Arizaphale hadn't leant back into his seat. He was sat up, leaning over the space between their seats. He was close. So close he had to swallow back the nerves that crept up his chest to stop from pushing himself away.

His breath fanned over Crowley’s lips, soft; vanilla and caramel, Cornish fudge, buttermilk. The last time they’d been so close Aziraphale had held his breath. This time he let them out, so tense they were almost stuttering, warm against the bitter nighttime air.

Crowley found it would be as easy to close the distance as it would be to create more between them, tilt his head down the last of it and knock that sweet breath out of his lungs.

But no. He had waited six thousand years, until the end of the world even. If he was going to be the one to make this move he would have done centuries upon centuries ago. There had been many 'right times' for him. It didn't matter. He would wait as long as it took for there to be a right time for Arizaphale; he'd wait another couple of centuries if he had to, another millennium, the rest of time as they knew it.

“Crowley it’s…” he trailed off, voice missing it’s usually starchiness. He sounded undone, so sure of what he wanted but stuck in the same place he always had been. He cleared his throat of whatever thoughts have gathered there with a thick swallow. “Is it a sin?”

“Yes.” He replied honestly, and he could feel the gentle quiver to it. “One of many.”

“Not this,” he insisted "Not..." His eyes flicked down to Crowley's lips and back, the thought left unfinished. Blinded by their proximity, Aziraphale reached out to find Crowley’s hand, surveying the ticklings of confusion on his face, and secretly admiring how his breath hitched as he found it.

Crowley sat static, as blind as the other, confused and pathetically in love as Aziraphale’s cold fingers traced the back of his hand, then his fingers, until they slipped in between them as best he could. Aziraphale lifted their joined hands, the other plaint under his hold, his gaze… _him_ , and pressed Crowley’s palm into his chest.

His hold was loose but something about it felt unrelenting. It was just as well, because Crowley didn’t want to fall away. He could feel a shift under it; not exactly a heartbeat but something akin to it. Something ethereal.

“This” he clarified. “Is this a sin?”

“I don’t think it can be. Things like this don’t belong in Hell.”

“Then why...” It sounded weak, desperate and so, so soft. Arizaphale sounded as though he was clinging onto the last shreds of reason and was losing his grip. His head tilted closer, only enough to leave him short of the other's lips. Only enough for Crowley to lose sight of the desperate want in his eyes. “Why is temptation all I can feel?”

Crowley wanted to tell him then; how much he adored him, valued and treasured him. He wanted to tell him how tightly tethered the spirit that swelled under his palm was to his own. He wanted to take his shoulders and pull him into a kiss that would show him just how frustratingly beautiful the wait for his moment had been, and how grateful he was to have experienced it.

Maybe he had been tempting him, subconsciously, making his own adoration and devotion too obvious to miss; making sure he knew he would wait quietly for the day Aziraphale was ready to acknowledge he reciprocated it.

“Angel, I–” the words beyond that failed.

Aziraphale’s lips were on his, closed and light. Cold compared to his own. Soft. Sweet. Intoxicating. Panic-inducing. He couldn’t breathe; he didn’t want to ever again. The war in his head, all his thoughts and fears, drifted into obscurity like smoke in the air, leaving nothing but the other's chest under his hand and his lips on his.

He thought finally kissing Aziraphale would be like falling all over again; skirting the edge for so long that he fooled himself into believing there was nowhere to go but down.

But he didn’t fall and he didn’t float. His feet were planted firmly on the floor of his car, because kissing the other wasn’t anything short or more than what they already had. For so long he had wanted to know what it would change, what it had the power to do, to find some kind of stability amongst the dysregulation of everything he had felt regarding the other. He had never been more relieved to feel the world around him humming on, and Aziraphale sat by his side as it happened.

Nothing had changed. Nothing was going to. He'd just been a scared idiot, clinging onto the belief that in the end things might not turn out as they should. Aziraphale knew it as well as he did.

Crowley’s lips shifted against the others in a contemplative hum. The Angel, the one who had been there at the beginning of his life on this earth and the one who he'd been beside to stop it from ending, sighed into it, his own lips tugging up at the corners as if in contentment. It wasn't longlived, but it was more than enough.

They parted, only just for Crowley to hear the others gentle sign of happiness unhindered by his lips. "I'm sorry I made you wait, my darling."

"No you're not."

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked reading and have a little spare change, please consider [buying me a coffee.](https://ko-fi.com/erinspiderr) I'm saving up to have my stories proof-read.


End file.
